Vesania
by BlueBladeNova
Summary: A strange hunt leads to a Baltimore insane asylum and a treasure hunt for an interview manuscript that may hold the key to defeating madness herself. Warnings for mentioned suicide/depression, weird deaths, and Nazi trash. No major character death.
1. Chapter 1

"DEAN!" Sam yelled. His voice carried through the abandoned publishing office, summoning his brother.

"I found it!"

"What does it say?!"

 _"Interview with Jacob Walters_

 _Paranormal History Magazine_

 _Interviewed by Andrea Hawkins_

 _It's a quiet evening with minimal fog and clear skies. Mr. Walters is approaching 87 years old, but is still spry enough to surprise me with a meal of crab cakes and red wine. During the casual dinner, I believe we got a good sense of each other's personalities. I found Mr. Walters to be a true gentleman, a wonderful conversationalist. It was more like dining a socialite rather than an ex-security guard._

 _We move to his soft, comfortable sitting room, with red velvet cushions and intricately-carved cherry-wood chairs. The walls are dark paneled, a fireplace to my left. The fire crackled cheerfully. Mr. Walters explains that he inherited the place from his mother._

 _After getting myself together, the interview begins around nine in the evening._

 _ **A:** Good evening, Mr. Walters._

 _ **J:** Good evening, Andrea. Did you enjoy dinner?_

 _ **A:** Yes, Mr. Walters, it was lovely. Thank you very much._

 _ **J:** It was my pleasure._

 _ **A:** Now, on to the reason I'm here._

 _ **J:** Yes, of course._

 _ **A:** I was curious about your experiences at the old asylum in Baltimore, back when it was in business. You're the last surviving member of the faculty._

 _ **J:** Am I?_

 _ **A:** Yes, sir._

 _ **J:** I hadn't heard that Elle had passed…_

 _ **A:** Yes, she passed some six months ago._

 _ **J:** Oh… Well, thank you for telling me._

 _ **A:** I'm sorry for your loss._

 _ **J:** Thank you, but we haven't spoken since the asylum closed. No no, it's fine. Now, tell me what you would like to know._

 _ **A:** Your position in the asylum, how long you worked there, and what finally drove you out for good. Anything else you may remember, if you please._

 _ **J:** Not asking for much, are you? *both chuckle* Well… They say that if you stare into the abyss, it stares back into you. They don't tell you that if you listen to the demons, you become one of them as well. Some sort of deranged indoctrination. To be fair, though, I'd probably be fine and sane today if I had chosen another job._

 _I used to work in the Patapsco State Hospital, right off the Anchorage Marina. Used to. I couldn't handle it anymore, after…_

 _I'll start at the beginning. It's a fairly short tale, because the trouble only began in the last five years that it was open. You know, of course, what drove me out… Same thing that drove everybody out, but I had a job to do and I stuck to it as best I could…_

 _In 1958, fifty years ago next week, I was twenty-nine years old when I began my night job at the Baltimore asylum. Understand that it was 1958, and the Depression and the industry boom caused by the war was all that I knew._

 _Gas was still 10 cents, the Golden Gate Bridge was just built, my sister was still waiting for Amelia Earhart to come back, and unemployment was dropping. I knew any day I'd be let go from my job at the retailer's, so I decided not to wait and just find another job. Couldn't hurt._

 _My job was an easy one, at first. Stand outside all night, keep out the weird relatives and religious freaks. I may not look it now, Miss Hawkins, but I was a buff guy in my prime. *both chuckle* Anyways… I just keep the patients safe from the outside._

 _Until the problem came from the inside, forty-five years later, in 2003._

 _The patients began getting more violent. No one could really tell why. No diet change, no medicine change. Nothing whatsoever was different. Except the patients and their sudden desire to kill every man, woman, child, and orderly in the asylum. I was reassigned to walk their halls at night._

 _Can you imagine it, Miss Hawkins? My blue uniform standing starkly against the dimly-lit white walls, the sterile scent of the sickly, my footsteps the echoed among patients' moans and occasional shrieks?_

 _I regret to say that I got used to it. Shrieking and sobbing simply became as inconsequential as elevator music._

 _*short pause*_

 _ **A:** You said the patients had become violent. Were you ever attacked?_

 _ **J:** Not exactly. They attempted to, but couldn't get through the doors. They would throw themselves at me but were stopped by the doors. By the rubber walls. They would scream one name, just one, over and over…_

 _ **A:** *pauses* … What name, Jacob?_

 _ **J:** Lyssa._

 _ **A:** Lyssa?_

 _ **J:** That's what it sounded like. Lyssa. That's the only thing it could've been. Nothing else made sense. Nothing. Just chanting, over and over. It began on one side of Wing A, then skipped two floors to the opposite side of the building in Wing D. We ruled out a simple case of hysteria fairly quickly._

 _The doctors couldn't figure it out, simple as that. They did tests, drew blood, tried giving them different medicines, but nothing. There was no discernable cause, no symptoms other than the uncontrollable chanting- Yes, I said uncontrollable, Miss Hawkins. I don't believe they were saying these things of their own free will. I knew one girl, a patient named Nova, for three years before the chanting started. She never looked as scared as she did while that awful name forced itself past her lips._

 _ **A:** Nova? Are you speaking of Nova Teresi?_

 _ **J:** The very same. She was the first of the deaths._

 _ **A:** Could you tell me about it, please?_

 _ **J:** Certainly. She… Well, she had been admitted for suicidal tendencies in the past. But she was getting better, Miss Hawkins. I saw her coloring, even heard her singing. She loved Vera Lynn, Miss Hawkins. Vera was a little before her time, but she loved the hope the woman's voice gave her, same as everyone during the war. She sang "Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart," and "We'll Meet Again."_

 _*sighs, shudders softly* You have no idea, Miss Hawkins...The asylum was filthy, with a halo of pure and clean around Nova and her clear-as-dewdrops voice. It made anyone and everyone smile. Some of the orderlies nicknamed her "Snow White," for her looks and nature._

 _ **A:** And then, Mr. Walters?_

 _ **J:** *his voice is cracked, cold now in grief* And then we found her body dangling from her window, overlooking the interior courtyard._

 _*we hear Andrea gasp*_

 _ **J:** Yeah. I suppose she wanted to feel the sun on her skin one last time… That's when my bad feeling started. The chanting and hostility, I could ignore. Not this. Not Nova. She was innocent. She was getting out._

 _To simplify this story, I will tell you what didn't know at the time._

 _It had been my presumption that Nova's body, with no family to be returned to, had gone down to the funeral home for cremation. But her body never made it there._

 _ **A:** Where did it go, Jacob?_

 _ **J:** Hell if I know. *he chuckles and sips more wine*_

 _We didn't know it at the time, but Lyssa had a body now. Nova's body, unbeknownst to me, was stolen and was never found. Now I know that Lyssa took it, took her, for her own use._

 _ **A:** How do you mean?_

 _ **J:** … It's difficult to… Well, I imagine… considering the magazine you work for, I suppose I'm safe with you…_

 _ **A:** You are, Sir._

 _ **J:** *smiles… then the smile faded* … I said I would tell you what we didn't know. So let me tell you._

 _Lyssa needed a body, you see. She couldn't keep doing her work as a shadow, as voices chanting her name, no, that just wouldn't do. She'd gotten a taste of a corporeal form, so she wanted more._

 _ **A:** You're confusing me, Mr. Walters… Who is Lyssa?_

 _Jacob Walters looked at me then, with a somberness that you only encountered in the lull of a funeral. The fireplace threw shadows against his face. His wrinkles, which I'd barely even noticed before, despite the number of them, were sharp and too blatant not to see. For the first time, it truly struck me that I was speaking to a very old man._

 _ **J:** After Nova's death, I looked in every book I could get my hands on, looking for Lyssa._

 _The only possible explanation seemed to be the Greek Goddess Lyssa. She was a daimona, a spirit of rage, raging madness. Her Roman counterpart was named Rabies, for Christ's sake. And she was in my asylum._

 _ **A:** She took Nova's body?_

 _ **J: ** That's right. Now remember that there were two stages to end end of the asylum; the first seven deaths, then the "finale," as she called it. I only personally witnessed the last of the first seven deaths._

 _ **A:** Sister Rosalia?_

 _ **J:** Yes. Sister Rosalia was… She was nobody's favorite, to be perfectly frank, but she did do her best in all she did. She chose her consecrated name when she became a nun because she saw parallels between herself and the original Saint Rosalia, the descendent of Charlemagne, who had turned away from her wealthy, materialistic life to live in a cave and humble herself for Jesus. Sister Rosalie gave up her own life of luxury to care for the sickly… and she paid for it with her life._

 _It was storming. It's always storming, isn't it, in ghost stories… A few patients had gotten loose and were racing around the building, screeching and wreaking havoc, throwing themselves into windows and freeing other patients and such. It was mayhem, even before we lost power. Then it was dark and in mayhem. *chuckles dryly*_

 _ **A:** What did you see, Mr. Walters?_

 _ **J:** … Nova. I saw dear, sweet Nova, standing on prone Sister Rosalia's hair. I saw her… She had a bowl, a huge bowl… It was full of molten gold. And she poured the gold into the Sister's mouth and nose, even her eyes._

 _Later, we learned that the gold was her crucifix and the cross and candlesticks from the altar in the chapel. I'm still at a loss as to how she melted it so quickly…_

 _Nova- or Lyssa, whatever you wish to call her- she looked at me and smiled. Wider than it was possible for any mouth to smile. Quite literally from ear to ear, so wide that her lips cracked and bled. She quoted scripture, Miss Hawkins, with blood running down her chin… I'll never be able to unsee Nova like that._

 _ **A:** Scripture?_

 _ **J:** Isaiah 3:21. "Now it will come about that instead of sweet perfume there will be putrefaction; Instead of a belt, a rope; Instead of well-set hair, a plucked-out scalp; Instead of fine clothes, a donning of sackcloth; And branding instead of beauty."_

 _I can only assume she was mocking Sister Rosalia._

 _ **A:** … My God._

 _ **J:** It was a godless place, Miss Hawkins._

 _ **A:** Yes… If you could tell me what else happened, maybe something you didn't see, that would be…_

 _ **J:** You don't want to hear it, Miss Hawkins. I can see it in your eyes. You're horrified. *Andrea nods here* Yes… You haven't been at this job very long, I can tell… But I'll tell you. The Patapsco Asylum has been voiceless for too long._

 _I'll tell you about Kurt Geer. He came over from Dresden, Germany, to get an education and experience in the medical field. And I can tell you that his experience didn't end because of homesickness, no. It ended because of his father, truly. He was a victim of his blood as much as Lyssa. You see… we didn't know until after he had died. But his father was a Nazi, and a rich one. He was even put in charge of a tiny concentration camp that was notorious for its treatment of Jewish children._

 _The short version is that Lyssa cornered Geer, silenced him, and killed him. The truth is that there was a particular child in Geer's father's camp who died, and Lyssa replicated those wounds onto Kurt. When I saw Kurt at lunch, he was six foot, four inches and two hundred and thirty pounds. Six hours later, he was on a cold slab, five foot ten and one hundred and four pounds. *pause* He had rectal prolapse, his penis was cut straight down the middle, scarring in the lungs, and he had a checkerboard pattern of lacerations on his chest._

 _ **A:** *Andrea is a nasty greenish color here* I… I see. Dear God._

 _ **J:** *nods and goes quiet*_

 _ **A:** … What happened, Mr. Walters? How did it all end?_

 _ **J:** Strangely, Miss Hawkins."_

Sam looked up at his big brother helplessly. "That's where it ends, Dean. The rest of the manuscript's been torn off."

Dean pursed his lips in a frown and shook his head. "We'll find the rest of it, Sammy. Or maybe this Walters guy is still around somewhere."

The brothers weren't sure how or why, but they knew Patapsco was important, a puzzle piece that fit in with other hunts that would reveal the bigger picture. It was exactly what they needed. It has to be. After all, they're out of leads. And Cas wouldn't lie to them.

* * *

 **A/N: Hey there. This wasn't actually supposed to be a SPN fanfic, it was supposed to be an exercise in voice techniques and it ran away from me XD. Please, tell me what you think!**


	2. Chapter 2

After scouring the rest of the dim, dingy office, the brothers darted out through the back door and into Dean's Impala. "Dean, this guy was eighty-seven in 2008," Sam reminded his older brother as the car sped down the Baltimore backstreets. "By now, even if he's not dead yet, he's at least ninety-five."

"I know, I know," Dean grumbled. "But we don't have a damn clue where the rest of the manuscript is, and we know where he is."

"What about that reporter, Andrea?" Sam demanded. "She was supposed to be twenty-three at the time of the interview. She's at least thirty now and _way_ more reliable than a possibly-senile old man."

"She's in hiding, Sam." Dean fished a newspaper out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Sam.

Hazel eyes scanned the article.

"... Nine found dead in Paranormal History Publishing House. Cause of death… Come on, Dean, this can't be real," Sam looked at his brother uneasily. Dean looked back at Sam with a _well, what did it say?_ look.

Sam pursed his lips. "Nine found dead… Cause of death was a bizarre presentation of the symptoms of rabies. Andrea Hawkins left town to start fresh, all her friends now dead."

Dean furrowed his brow. "Wasn't the date on that paper April 10th?" The shaggy-haired brother checked and nodded.

"Yeah, why?"

Dean pulled the manuscript out. "Because the date on this manuscript was April 7th. Rabies doesn't act that fast in humans. You remember _Old Yeller_ , right?"

"I remember Dad yelling at me to stop crying when they shot the dog," Sam grumbled.

"Yeah. Well, I think rabies acts slower in humans than it does in animals," Dean speculated. "So, basically Lyssa, whoever this bitch is, probably killed them. She might still be using Nova's body."

There was a short pause in their conversation as Dean parked and let himself and his little brother into their shitty motel room. The place was likely only held together with plaster and Elmer's Glue, but it was a roof, four walls, and a bed, even if there was an ugly yellow wallpaper giving them an eyesore. Another mark of crappiness of the motel was the fact that none of the furniture matched at all. But again, it was shelter, and Sam was too big to sleep in the Impala comfortably anyways.

Sam set up shop, bringing out his portable WiFi router, laptop, and books he had picked up before visiting the publishing house. While Dean skimmed the mythology books, Sam searched through the internet for reliable information. "Lyssa was a figure of Athenian tragedy. In the tale of Aeschylus, she appears as the agent of Dionysus, sent to drive the Minyades insane. Also, in Euripides she is sent by Hera to inflict Hercules. Greek vase-paintings confirm her appearance in the story about Acteaon, that hunter who saw Artemis naked. Apparently Lyssa drove the guy's hunting dogs insane and caused them to rip their owner apart. Ouch. She traditionally appears a women dressed in a short skirt, and crowned with a dog's-head cap to represent the madness of rabies," Dean finished reading from the lore. "So basically, we're dealing with a very nasty bitch."

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother. "Well, it fits with what Jacob said," he murmured, eyes on his laptop. "Hey… I think I found something here." He swiveled his laptop to face his brother, who glanced at the page. "You're kidding. You just typed in Walters' name and found him?"

The younger Winchester shrugged. "Well, I typed in his name, Baltimore county, Baltimore City, and oldest residents, so…"

An eye-achingly small font laid out the obituary for Jacob Walters, who died only two months before. "He's survived by his eighty-one year old sister Jeanne Walters, his daughter Diana Matthews, and his grandchildren Keira and Ethan Matthews."

"And where are they?" Dean asked. Sam checked. "Not far from here, actually. Crownsville, in Anne Arundel County. Half an hour away, tops."

Stretching his muscled arms over his head, Dean yawned and shook his head. "We'll go first thing in the morning," he told his younger brother. "I'm gonna try to hustle some pool before bed first, though. Call Diana and set up a meet."

"You think you'll get a score?" Sam asked skeptically. Dean winked at his brother.

"Sammy, we are in the richest state in the US of A. I'm gettin' at least $50 tonight." He slung his coat over his shoulder, messed up Sam's hair, and headed out.

Sam rolled his eyes with a small smirk that faded with the click of the door shutting. It left an uncomfortable silence in the air, weighing down Sam's shoulders and compressing his eardrums. While Dean was away, he worked in silence, creating IDs for himself and his brother. It was best, in this case, to become journalists themselves, he decided. He smiled a little sadly to himself, casting Dean as Editor-in-Chief Bowie and himself as Associate Editor Rickman.

"Hello?" A woman asked after picking up her phone to answer Sam.

"Hello, may I speak to Diana Matthews?"

"Speaking. Who is this?"

Sam worried at his lower lip. This woman was clearly cranky. Maybe she was asleep- it was only nine-thirty. Maybe she always sounded like that. Maybe she's just preoccupied.

"I'm sorry to call you so late, ma'am. My name is Jared Rickman, associate editor of a new up-and-coming online paranormal magazine. We've been having some trouble attracting readers, you see, and my Editor-in-Chief and I were hoping you would agree to an interview."

"Let me guess, because of the whole Patapsco fiasco with my father?"

"... Yes, ma'am. We completely understand if you're not interested."

Diana sighed. "You know what? I'm quitting my job tomorrow anyways Come on down tomorrow and I'll give you a tour of the haunted mental hospital, plus the interview you want. How does that sound for your interview?"

Sam's eyes lit right up. "That sounds wonderful."

"Got a pen on you, honey? Here's the address."

Sam hung up a few minutes later, very pleased with himself. He tucked the IDs into Dean's "professional-looking" sweater pocket and went to bed. He smiled as he thought about what Dean's reaction to his new cover name. He'd either smack him or praise him.

* * *

He did both, as it turned out, on the way to Crownsville. Sam sat in the backseat for the rest of the ride, counting the cash Dean earned/stole/won last night while Dean blasted Bowie's old albums loud enough to shake Baby. "Rest in peace, Ziggy," he mumbled disgruntledly.

* * *

The house was off a backroad, away from main roads with few neighbors. It was two stories tall, sky blue with white trim, surrounded by trees, and had a two-car garage. The lawn was freshly cut and mowed, not a single blade of grass jutting over the edge of the concrete driveway, which bled into a sidewalk to the deck. Brick masonry edging separated the lawn from a graceful carpet of peonies and bunches of white chrysanthemums. A wraparound porch with white railings served as an in-between for the sidewalk and the threshold of a honey-colored wood door with an oval-shaped window. The glass in the window was intricately decorated with flowery designs.

The brothers exchanged a glance on the smooth concrete porch. Dean pointedly glanced at two flowerpots with nothing but thriving bundles of sage. Sam took note of this and nodded, then rang the doorbell.

Diana was a woman in a state of nirvana-esque apathy, who had long ago learned that being pretty was not a rent that women have to pay to live in this world. This was clear from the moment she allowed the Winchesters in her home with a pink bunny slipper on her right foot and a sneaker on her left. She was wearing jeans and a flannel pj top under a purple bathrobe and it seemed that only half of her fading brown hair was brushed.

But she had made them coffee and some snacks, which Dean liberally helped himself to. And in any case, the inside of the house was as spotless and meticulously-cared for as the outside.

"No kids in the nest anymore," she explained briskly over a steaming mug of coffee. The three of them were now seated in the sitting room, the Winchesters on a sofa, Diana in a loveseat across from them, a glass-topped coffee table with a chrysanthemum centerpiece between them. "And my husband's on a business trip in Seattle for the next three weeks, so I don't bother keeping up appearances, you understand."

"Of course, Mrs. Matthews," Dean smiled pleasantly. "Why look pretty if no one's around to see it, right?"

Diana smiled widely. She actually had a very beautiful smile that took ten years off her appearance. "Exactly, Mr. Bowie."

So far, so good. Sam cleared his throat a bit. "Mrs. Matthews, we're actually here because we're curious about a manuscript."

Diana nodded as if she had been expecting that. "The interview between my father and Andrea?" The brothers nodded in confirmation.

Diana cracked a smile. "Do you have any idea how many people have come to me asking about that manuscript since my father died? Seven," she answered her own question before one of the brothers could answer. "Seven people were desperate to know what my father told that journalist. Family, friends, and total strangers."

Sam looked down at his knees and back up in disappointment. "I understand, ma'am. If you won't give us the manuscript, would you give us a general-"

"I didn't say I wouldn't give it to you," Diana interjected. Sam fell silent, staring at her in confusion.

"... I'm sorry, but… Why would you give it to _us?_ " Sam asked incredulously.

A little twisted smirk played at her lips. "Because I'm a bitter, spiteful old woman," she giggled. "And you seem like nice boys, so why not? Better you than those other idiots who came by here..."

Dean leaned in a bit. "Other idiots, ma'am?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah. They called themselves the Ghostfacers or something stupid like that. A bunch of camera-whores if you ask me."

"We completely agree," Sam nodded seriously. "We've dealt with them before. And we solemnly promise that the script will be completely safe with us. The Ghostfacers will never get their hands on it."

She smiled brilliantly at them and stood. "I'll be right back, boys, the manuscript is in Dad's old study."

Diana took the key off the necklace under her shirt and slipped it inside the lock of a small drawer. She gently slid out a small stack of papers and returned to the boys, pressing it into Dean's calloused hands. With a thoughtful look, she sank back down into the loveseat while Dean flipped through the script. Then, he looked back up at her.

"Hey, ah…" he cleared his throat. "Is there a page missing?"

Diana furrowed her brows and stole back the script. She got to the end and swore, seeing the last sentence incomplete.

"Dammit. Andrea must've taken it."

* * *

 **A:** " _What happened, Mr. Walters? How did it all end?_

 **J:** " _Strangely, Miss Hawkins._

 _In the final night of my employment at Patapsco State Hospital, there was a riot unlike anything I had ever seen in all my years there. The orderlies were shepherding the patients into their rooms when it happened. It was like a massive drop in the air pressure; orderlies collapsed, clutching their ears, and all hell broke loose. Even the calm patients went completely berserk. Utter mayhem. They all started running at once, in every direction, breaking everything they could lay their hands on. Syringes, windows, bones- all shattered in their hands._

 _Lyssa was in Heaven. She fed off the chaos like an addict getting a fix. I… I must confess that the whole night was a blur. Up until the very end. I remember running until my lungs felt like they were dying, searing with exhaustion. Next thing I know, I'm in Sister Rosalia's old room, with her possessions exactly where she had left them. I started digging through her things, looking for something that might possibly help._

 _I found a box. An old, cracked marble, empty box with carved details engraved on it. As soon as I touched it, a ripple of… Peace, perhaps… shot through the room. No, not peace… Hope._

 _I can't explain what happened next._

 _Nova threw my body, along with the box, against the wall. She flew towards me like a bat, eyes red as blood._

 _I opened the box and cowered behind it._

 _She disappeared, I shut the box, and the box began to rattle as if something were inside it._

 _I escaped the asylum. By then, it was burning. I'm positive I stepped over some bodies. I took the box home and chained it shut._

 _I still have that box, Miss Hawkins._

 _Would you like to see it?_

* * *

 ** _A/N: To be continued._**


End file.
